Snow Angels
by MiLady Oakenshield
Summary: He always says such horrible things to her. Always. Takes place during The Scandal of Belgravia; Christmas scene.
1. I

Somehow or another, he had been convinced to host a Christmas party at the flat. It would be fun, they said. He would enjoy himself, they said. Thus far, it had not been fun nor was he enjoying himself.

John had brought himself a date—which Sherlock doubted would go well, in the end—Lestrade was there, as was Mrs. Hudson; basically, when it came down to it, the only people given the chance to be remotely close enough as friends to Sherlock Holmes. The few who could stand to be in the same room with him for more than an hour without someone wanting to punch him in the face.

And yet, there was one person who wasn't there, the same person who deserved a phone call. They never phoned each other before, least of all during the holidays but something in Sherlock's warm heart had him excusing himself from everyone else, shielding himself behind the door of his bedroom and whipping out his mobile phone.

He seemed perfectly content to go on pretending it didn't bother him; Christmas Eve, after all—no need to be sad, no need for the tears or the heartbreak. A joyous time. But when the phone call with his brother ended and the Apple iPhone lowered to the nightstand on the very right side of his bed, there was no mistaking the hurt seen in his face.

No answer; he should have come to expect that.

They may not have the best of relationships—God knows that; for all they ever seemed to do was bicker and argue—but they were _brothers_, siblings.

Rolling a light sigh, Sherlock pushed aside whatever feelings he might have had in attempts to communicate with Mycroft this evening. He stared at his mobile for several seconds. And that annoying prickle in the back of his mind that told him to just leave it was back.

Hearing a steady roar of laughter from the living room, Sherlock's peridot green eyes looked over his left shoulder. Groaning inwardly, he pulled himself into the bathroom and retrieved a small bottle of aspirin from the cabinet above the sink. After twisting open the cap, he tilted the bottle and gradually tapped out two pills into his palm. Sherlock tossed them back into his mouth and flicked on the water faucet. He made a cup with his right hand and slowly scooped cold water into his mouth.

Only seconds later did he turn off the faucet and twist the lid of the aspirin bottle back on. He replaced the bottle in the cabinet and wrung his hands through with a small red cloth draped between two silver-plated dowels. Sherlock stood up straight and tugged at his jacket then stepped out of his bathroom and beelined across the carpet of his bedroom. He first snuck a peek into the living room then emerged slowly.

.

.

With the violin cradled to his neck and the bow pinched between his fingers, Sherlock glided gracefully across the floor in front of the window. He played a very nice rendition of We Wish You a Merry Christmas. Often, he'd take up the violin and play something for various reasons; sometimes when he needed to think, when he was bored or if he felt like being whimsical for a change. This was Christmas Eve after all.

And as he finished his playing, a small thunder of a applause erupted and Mrs. Hudson sat there beaming as if she were looking very much like a proud mother to her son. "That was lovely," she said in a usual chipper tone.

Sherlock took a short bow.

"Though I do wish you could wear those antlers."

Smirking; "Some things are better left up to the imagination, Mrs. Hudson. Oh no thank you, Sarah." From the corner of his left eye, he noticed John's date had walked up with a trey of food. Though once he had gotten a look at her face, Sherlock frowned.

John was on his feet quickly, trying to come up with an excuse for his dearly misguided friend. "No, no no- he's not good with names…"

"No, I got this. Sarah was the doctor, then there was that one with the nose and- oh, who was after that boring teacher?"

John's date crossed her arms. "Nobody."

"Jeanette!" he exclaimed almost excitedly. "Process of elimination." He started to turn away again when someone else had walked through his doorway and by the smell of lavender perfume suddenly wafting through his nostrils, he had to look; and a look of distain washed over him. "Oh, hell…"

"Hello everyone."

.

.

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."

"Sorry, what?"

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and you're giving him a gift." It was the small mound of presents in the bag she brought with her that drew his attention, especially the red one on top that she so obviously put more care into wrapping than the rest of them.

Seated next to Jeanette, John squeaked, "Take a day off…"

"Shut up and have a drink," Lestrade added.

"Oh come on, surely you've all seen the present on top of the bag?" Sherlock pushed himself out of the chair. "Perfectly wrapped with a bow, all the others are slap-dash at best." He picked up the present in question, and held it close in his right hand. "For someone special then." His eyes traveled over to Molly's face. "Shade of red echoes her lipstick, either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has loooove on her mind."

By this point, Molly's heart was pounding in her throat. A brilliant shade of red had flushed just under a layer of pale skin. She looked away from his piercing eyes, trying almost desperately to put her mind elsewhere for the moment.

"The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all, which would suggest hopes of a long-term relationship. And the fact that she's seeing him tonight is obvious from her makeup and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breas…"

Sherlock's voice suddenly trailed off and the look in his eyes mirrored that surprisingly tight feeling in his chest. He read the inscription there on the tag. There was this dryness to his throat that almost mimicked how his stomach had dropped. Looking at Molly and realizing the silence that surrounding them, he also noticed a set of unshed tears in the red-head's eyes.

_Bugger_, he thought.

He slid a single foot forward. "Molly, I- "

"You always say such horrible things," she rounded, cutting him off. "Always. Always…" She stole a very brief look at her own feet, feeling a sudden nausea churn her stomach.

"I am sorry. Forgive me."

Sherlock's heart rate increased.

When Molly looked up at him again, he closed some distance between them. With a gentle "Merry Christmas", he pressed his lips to her cheek. And he was surprised by how soft and warm her skin felt. Something else had caught him off guard too, and his face was suddenly covered in red wine. Blinking hard, he read the face that now had adopted on a hard scowl.

She didn't know what became of her. It was a sudden impulse she had. And now the empty wine glass was placed down on the table. She apologized to everyone else in the room then turned sharply on her heels and stormed out.

**I thought I'd give myself a try at expanding that Christmas scene in The Scandal of Belgravia. So in doing this, I wanted to make it more than a one-shot, probably a two-shot. Please enjoy and review!**


	2. II

Sherlock's fingers steeped together under his chin.

He did this when he was thinking. He reverted to a place in his mind he'd like to refer to as his mind palace; from there, he'd keep randomly stored memories, ideas-mental images of sorts. Those mental images could be just about anything, but they were usually in regards to cases he's worked on. Not just any cases, those that didn't bore him.

But there were always other reasons why he'd revert to his mind palace; that was usually when John would wonder if Sherlock was doing so because he had something on his mind he wasn't keen on sharing or he was purposely trying to block something out.

"She's gone."

John looked up from his date, fixing a gaze on the detective inspector that just came waltzing back into the flat. "What?"

Sherlock's eyes looked up.

"Did you not hear me?" Lestrade reached into his pocket for his blackberry. "I said she's gone. Wonderfully done, Sherlock," his voice was harsh, cold and unforgiving when he spoke next to the consulting detective seated in a red plush chair.

The detective scrolled through his contacts; Molly Hooper is who he was looking for. He cradled his mobile between his shoulder and cheek bone-listening.

No answer. But there was something. There was a ringing.

The unmistakable Pink Panther ringtone was coming from somewhere nearby. But… but that shouldn't be, if Molly had her phone with her. Lestrade was quick to make a beeline across the room where he tore open the closet, and the ringing became louder.

He reached into the pocket of a heavy black coat. "Bugger." The ringing phone appeared in the palm of his hand, meaning that Molly had stormed out without two things- her heavy winter coat and her mobile phone.

"Oh dear…" Mrs. Hudson whimpered; she always was the type to worry.

John was already on his feet.

"I'm phoning the Yard- " Lestrade put his phone to his ear, "if I can get an officer to her flat, I can start looking at places elsewhere for her."

Once he reached someone, he explained, in brief, the situation. Doing so took less than two minutes and even less time for Lestrade to fist his mobile into his coat pocket to vanish out the door.

John crossed back over the living room, stepped out of the doorway and scurried up the stairs-taking them two at a time-to reach his bedroom. He reached into his side drawer and pulled out his firearm then tucked it between the waistband of his trousers. After fixing his coat around his shoulders, John turned swiftly and left his room.

Coming back downstairs, he popped back into the living room. "I'm going to meet up with Lestrade and help him search."

Mrs. Hudson and Jeanette eyed him.

John beelined to the closet to grab his jacket then twisted it around his shoulders. "She couldn't have gotten far, not in this weather, not without he- Where did Sherlock wonder of to?"

The two ladies followed John's unblinking gaze to the now empty chair by the window.

.

.

Molly assumed he never listened to her. She told him a few times stories of her childhood, of things she enjoyed, but he never once showed an ounce of interest. They had known each other for quite some time but their conversations were brief, if at all, and maybe just in passing would they talk about something not relating to a case.

Somehow or another, Molly had developed a crush. A small, miniscule crush. Why on earth would someone think they could fall for a guy like Sherlock Holmes? He was overly blunt, critical, harsh, cold- to be frank; someone would have to be blindly mad. So maybe she was just that; mad.

If someone were to ask her now if she thought Sherlock would ever pay attention to something she said, she'd have to say no. When, in reality, she'd be wrong; he listened to _everything_ she said, every detail.

How else would he know exactly where to look?

"Hello Molly."

Turning a sharp eye, the red-head barely acknowledged the fact the great Sherlock Holmes stood behind her. Watching. Waiting. His hands buried inside his pocket.

She looked back to the frozen pond, shivering. She didn't think about the cold when she stormed out of the flat. The only thing she thought of was getting as far away from Sherlock as possible. He had done it this time. Gone and humiliated her in front of her friends when she had come bearing him a present she had wrapped herself.

Sherlock shrugged off his coat then wrapped it around Molly's shoulders. "Lestrade and John have gone searching for you," he said, even if she didn't pay attention. "You were a complete idiot to come out her- "

"Do you remember me telling you about my dad?" Of course, she didn't expect him to answer her question and the warmth his coat gave her was refreshing. "He taught me how to ice skate on this pond."

"Yes, so you've told me."

"There was something I didn't tell you." Molly's eyes skipped over the pond then shifted to her right and fell on his face. She searched his peridot hues, the stone expression; of course, finding nothing that would give her promise he was interested. "There was a patch of thin ice – I didn't see it, I couldn't have. I've never saw him so worried before…"

"So why are you telling me this now?"

"Come now, Sherlock." Her expression changed, very subtly, to mimic a smirk. "You're the detective; you're the one always deducing people. You tell me." Her eyes were fixed on him. She expected him to start his tirade right then though when he remained silent, Molly looked back to the pond. "I came out here every year hoping that one of these times, I'll be brave enough to go back out onto the ice but I never am. I always just… stand here…looking pathetic."

The consulting detective looked at her for a moment longer then tilted his head, and his peridot eyes looked out to the pond. He studied the few people skating around the large tree all strung up in brilliant white lights and adorned with various ornaments.

If not for John's sentiment or Mrs. Hudson's love of the holiday, Sherlock wouldn't have a tree in his flat; he didn't celebrate Christmas, not for a lack of trying. There were times he would enjoy it but when his relationship with his brother continued disintegrating, and after their mother died, it didn't seem worth it anymore.

Sherlock's eyes continued to wander. Then he saw a vendor standing not too far away, and a few people standing around him. Suddenly, he got an idea. Sherlock Holmes was never a man for sentiment – the thought of which dying years ago – but that vender gave him the perfect idea to make Molly Hooper feel better.

"Come with me. I have an idea."

Molly blinked. "Sherlock?"

He suddenly grabbed her hand and started pulling her along. She resisted, a little, at first, and was forced to pinch at the coat to keep it from falling off her shoulders.

Once she, too, saw the vender, she started to slow her pace and so much as even attempted to pull her hand back. But his grip was strong. He wasn't letting go of her.

"I need two pair please. Size twelve for me and seven for the lady."

After paying the vender, Sherlock grabbed his pair of skates and handed the other to Molly. The red-head eyes them suspiciously for a few seconds then watched as Sherlock pulled on his skates. It didn't surprise her in the least that he knew her shoe size, only that he remembered it.

Once his skates were on, and her skates were on, he took her by the hands and walked with her onto the thick iced over pond. Her legs wobbled; it had been some time since she's been on the ice, not since she was a child. Molly stumbled forward and would have fell uncharactistically on her face had Sherlock not been standing in front of her. He caught her as she slipped.

Molly suddenly became very aware her head was buried against his chest. A soft chuckle vibrated throughout his body, starting from under his ribcage. "I've got you," he said.

He started shuffling his feet along the ice and pulled her along with him, telling her to just keep looking at his face and not at her feet. Though her hazel eyes would no doubt be looking at where her feet were leading her.

After some time of leading her around on the ice, Molly began to get comfortable again. She was remembering being out here. Sherlock sensed this by a slight change in her breathing. She slowly moved away from him and began skating about on her own. Getting a bit more daring and feeling more confident in her childhood skills returning to her, Molly moved her legs more then started skating in a small figure eight before circling around Sherlock.

Sherlock followed her along the pond, moving his feet this way and that. She would do a few circles here and there, twist her body to double back and circle around him; and he would do a few things of his own. Molly started laughing. Her laughter and her smile were infectious. Sherlock started smiling as well, with the occasional chuckle.

Then he skated up close to her and reached out to grab her hands. Molly stopped skating though her laughter continued. "That was fun." Her eyes lifted to his face. "Thanks for that."

Then it started snowing again, slowly, at first, and then a tad heavier. Molly looked up at the blackened sky as snow flake after snow flake floated down to her face. She closed her eyes, thinking, and just let the snow cover her. When she opened her eyes again and shifted her gaze to his face, he was smiling.

He tugged a strand of red hair behind her ear then grazed a thumb across her chin. "I've got you, Molly. I've got you."


	3. III

At the kettle's whistle, Mrs. Hudson pushed off from the chair and stepped over into the kitchen. She turned off the stove top where the kettle rested then snatched a pot holder and grabbed the kettle's hand as not to burn herself when she removed the kettle from the stove top. She poured the boiling water into two waiting ceramic mugs, smelling the sweet scent of lavender and chamomile sifting out from the tea bags. After putting the kettle onto another unused burner, Mrs. Hudson stirred a half spoonful of sugar into each mug then carried one in each hand over to the kitchen table.

Sherlock looked up with a tad shadow of a smile. He reached for the mug – just a simple little thing he picked up at an outside market one day as he passed by; nothing too fancy, while not being too plan and boring at the same time – and nodded his thanks.

A second mug was placed in front of Molly Hooper, who sat with her back facing the warm stove and a heavy blanket shielded over her shoulders where Sherlock's coat previously resided. In between the casual sips from his own tea, Sherlock would rub his right hand between the pathologist's shoulder blades in order to coax some lost heat back into her body.

Molly's fingers grasped the mug handle and she lifted the object to her mouth. And just after tipping it against her lips, she looked over the rim at the elderly woman. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, deary," the grey-haired woman replied, in kind, with a smile.

"I'm afraid I've ruined everything." Molly frowned. "I'm s-sorry." A shiver went down her spine and her whole body was suddenly overcome with that same shiver.

"Don't apologize, dear."

Sherlock's ministrations between her shoulder blades grew. "Im afraid it's I who should apologize for everything." His hard, calloused fingers rubbed against her neck. The warmth they emitted was enough for the shivering in Molly's body to die off.

Mrs. Hudson felt a twinge in her chest; not often did Sherlock ever apologize, if at all. "I'm just thankful that you're alright."

"The others… did they go home already?" Molly asked.

"They went searching for you."

Molly frowned, feeling a pang of guilt in her throat.

Mrs. Hudson did not continue. The hour was quite late and she had already forced herself to stay awake much longer than she normally did. A woman her age wasn't used to it.

But a hard yawn stopped her in her tracks. She brought a hand to her mouth then proceeded to wish the pair a good night as she left the kitchen. In walking through the living room, she heard noises coming from downstairs. Not looking back towards the two seated at the kitchen table, Mrs. Hudson exited the flat and slowly moved down the staircase.

It was Lestrade and John who stood there in the front hallway. And when they saw her, they must have assumed ill.

"There we no luck," Lestrade said. "And the officer sent to her flat phoned me to say he hadn't seen her there either. That idiot really did it this time… " The inspector detective grumbled something but it seemed nothing but incoherent mumbling.

Mrs. Hudson steeled her anger. "Miss Hooper is upstairs as we speak."

"What?!"

John blinked. "Is she okay?"

"She's got a bit of a chill but otherwise she's fine." Again, she yawned. "I must turn in for the night, gentlemen. Merry Christmas."

Lestrade and John watched her leave into her own lodgings before sharing a stare amongst themselves.

"I'll kill him," Lestrade mused, point blankly.

The pair took to the stairs.

When they got to the flat, they rushed through the living room quickly. It was John who first saw his flat mate seated at the kitchen table, and Molly sitting at the chair in front of the stove. Both he and Lestrade sighed heavily, and it was very clear in both of their eyes that they didn't know whether to start yelling or remain calm.

However, neither of them had to say much of anything when Sherlock lifted his head from his hot tea and nodded towards both of them.

"I-I'm sorry," Molly stammered old, her voice still giving an indication she was still cold. "Were you out looking for me? I didn't mean to worry you. Detective. Mr. Watson. I'm alright now. I promise."

Lestrade's brows narrowed for a bit but when he looked over at Sherlock, he simply sighed and stormed off; again, muttering something incoherent under his breath. No one really paid him any attention and for John, he didn't get visibly upset. Instead, he just kicked off his shoes and paraded upstairs. Though Molly jumped when the door to John's bedroom slammed shut.

Sherlock and Molly finished up their mugs of tear and then Sherlock took both empty mugs to the sink while Molly climbed to her feet and started removing the blanket from her shoulders. She folded it over her arm as best she could than handed it to the consulting detective. Turning from him, she pranced into the living room and immediately opened the closet to fetch her jacket.

"I suggest you stay here for the night, Molly."

Molly looked over her right shoulder. "I need to get back home. Poor Toby has been without my attention all day."

"The snow fall has gotten heavier." He jutted his head towards the window, and Molly's eyes followed his gaze. "It's not wise to be traveling in this weather. And you and still cold. Toby will manage without you for the night. You can take my bed."

"No, really, I-I couldn't…"

"Please Molly. I insist."

"Well, I- " her words faded the more she studied the heavy snow raining down outside the window. Logically, she could just catch a cab. She looked back to Sherlock, who was now making direct eye contact, and fell a swell of butterflies fluttering in her belly. He crossed over the living room and took the coat from her. "I have nothing to sleep in."

"I will find you something. Go get washed up."

Sherlock gave Molly's coat a careless toss over the back of a chair then pointed her in the direction of his bathroom. Whilst she wandered off to get washed up, the consulting detective walked through the kitchen to his bedroom then pulled open the first drawer. Since a majority of his shirts involved buttons, he had to rummage around until he managed to find one that wasn't flannel nor had buttons in the front.

Shutting the drawer, he turned out his bedroom just as Molly was pulling the door shut for the bathroom. He tossed her the shirt in his hands and when she caught it mid-air, she uncurled it then raised a brow, almost smirking despite herself.

"I never pictured you a fan of Rugby," Molly quipped.

"I'm not," he followed. "Mrs. Hudson gave it to me as a present for my birthday. I never did wear it much but this should do for you I think."

"Thank you." She disappeared into the bathroom again to change. When she emerged, Molly had pulled out the ribbons and such in her hair and completely removed any make up. "It's a bit long but it will do."

Sherlock nodded. "Goodnight, Molly."

"Goodnight."

As she crossed over to his bedroom, the clock alarm in the living room started going off. Both paused mid-step in the hallway to listen, and then Sherlock paused. "Merry Christmas, Molly."

He closed the distance between them and as his heart leapt in his chest, he brought his lips down to hers. Molly was taken aback; she didn't respond, nor did she back away. And when he stepped back then turned to leave her there, she noticed the mistletoe hanging from the window frame.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."


End file.
